contact between my worn and sustained self and the innocence of a
little white child. It is wonderful to watch a woman's rapturous
familiarity with these newcomers. A man's love has far more awe in
it, and the passionate animal instinct of defence is wanting in
him. "A woman shall be saved through the child-bearing," said St
Paul; not necessarily her own, but by participation in the great
act of motherhood which is the crown and glory of her sex. She is
the "prisoner of love," caught in a net of her own weaving; held
fast by little hands which rule by impotence, pursued by feet the
swifter for their faltering.

It seems incredible that this is what a woman will barter for the
right to "live her own life"--surely the most empty of desires.
Man--vir, woman--femina, go to make up THE man--homo. There can be
no comparison, no rivalry between them; they are the complement of
each other, and a little child shall lead them. It is easy to
understand that desire to shelter under the dear mantle of
motherhood which has led to one of the abuses of modern Romanism.
I met an old peasant couple at Bornhofen who had tramped many weary
miles to the famous shrine of Our Lady to plead for their only son.
They had a few pence saved for a candle, and afterwards when they
told me their tale the old woman heaved a sigh of relief, "Es wird
bald gut gehen: Die da, Sie versteht," and I saw her later paying
a farewell visit to the great understanding Mother whom she could
trust. Superstitious misapprehension if you will, but also the
recognition of a divine principle.

It was Behmen, I believe, who cried with the breath of inspiration,
"Only when I know God shall I know myself"; and so man remains the
last of all the riddles, to be solved it may be only in Heaven's